


Whatever You Need

by antheeia



Category: 91 Days (Anime)
Genre: (they're gay tho), Angst, Canonical Character Death, Childhood Memories, Family Angst, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Introspection, a whole lot of headcanons, headcanons, the shippy part is up to your interpretation, you could just see them as just a couple of guys being dudes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 23:20:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9040694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antheeia/pseuds/antheeia
Summary: An introspective fic in which Nero tries to deal with the death of his brother.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For my lovely secret santa: I hope you enjoy your present!  
> I'm sorry for the angst, but I failed at writing fluff. ;____;
> 
> Merry Christmas! :^]

Nero’s hands were shaking, trembling, and his eyes were wet, though he would never admit to it. The weight of what he had done was just now getting to him, reaching his mind in its entirety, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to keep it together.

Images from earlier that night flashed into his mind: Frate’s eyes, dark-circled, filled with anger, frustration, hate, feelings that Nero never wanted his little brother to experience, feelings he never wanted Frate to have towards him. He remembered when, some years back, those same eyes looked at him shining with happiness, warm with affection, bright with admiration; and now they were empty, extinguished, bare, and he was the one who took the life out of them.

 _It didn’t really happen_. he told himself. _It didn’t_.

Did he really become so horrible and corrupted that he managed to do something so vile and disgusting? Nero couldn’t accept, he didn’t want to believe that the endless list of his heinous crimes now included fratricide, that he had to add his own brother’s name to the list of lives he shattered.

He closed his eyes: behind his eyelids, through the maze of his confused mind, he chased the memory of a warm July Sunday, when he was still a child and his mother was still alive. His recollection was vague, hazy, but he struggled, shutting his eyes tightly, trying to grasp those confused images of light and happiness. The green of the landscape seemed so far and foreign, like it was something from another world, and yet he had lived that moment, he had been that boy sitting in the back of his parents’ car with his new suit and his hair well groomed and a flat cap. That memory was just as real as the images that kept flashing in front of his eyes, and maybe even more.

That day, Vincent was driving and Nero’s mother was sitting beside him, while Nero, Fio and Frate were sitting in the back. They were going to Mass together and Nero remembered that they were all wearing their best clothes and he really liked his own: a dark grey pair of trousers, a white shirt, a black vest and a blue tie. Fio was wearing an elegant light green dress, and her hair was down, which was unusual. She looked so cute, and her smile was carefree and cheerful, so different from the one she had now, even if it had always retained that same warmth and love. Frate was wearing Nero’s old suit: a pair of brown short pants, a white shirt, a red bowtie, and a vest that Nero always found too tight for him; the clothes were a little baggy on his brother, but they were probably going to fit him better than they had fitted Nero.

Fio was sitting behind their mother, and she was looking out the window of the car, while Frate was sitting between her and Nero, leaning against his brother, half asleep. At the time, they cared for each other in a simple and innocent way that would be completely absurd now, ‘cause they didn't have a care in the world, back then. Nero still remembered how happy he was every Sunday morning because, after Mass (and sometimes during it, when he sneaked out) he got to play with his friends, and they all ate together in the Vanetti mansion afterwards.

At that thought, he felt a fit of nostalgia: he wished he could go back to see the world in that pure, naive way, he wished Sunday had retained that nature of ‘special day’ he looked forward to all week, he wished he wasn’t stained, broken, miserable. Now more than ever, Nero wished he could go back to that moment, to any moment of his childhood, before his father decided he was grown up enough to learn of his ‘responsibilities’, to a time when the Mafia was but a game, when he could wrap an arm around his little brother and feel his warmth, when he could kiss his sister on the cheek and smile at her and she would smile back, when he could hug his mother tightly and never let her go.

Instead his days were a series of sad and painful moments, and he tried to have fun, he tried to enjoy all the good things he had, but sometimes, like in that moment, it was like his will was broken into little pieces and he couldn’t find the strength in himself to pick them up, to stand up and go on.

What would his mother think about what he had done? Nero couldn’t say because he didn’t remember her that clearly: after more than eleven years, her memory was starting to blur in his mind. But he remembered her warmth, the way her arms felt like home, her soft, golden hair framing her face; he remembered the way she always put an end to her children’s bickering, her tone resolute but never violent, and he recalled the way in which her soft and quiet laugh shook her shoulders slightly, and how the muffled sound of her chuckle made him feel warm and happy. He wished she was there to comfort him.

But would she comfort him? Or would she react like Fio did, with a cold and expressionless acceptance, leaving all the anger, the pain, the blame unsaid but still hanging in the air between them? Nero couldn’t imagine how she would react to something so terribly distant from the life they led when she was alive, but his father always said Fio reminded him of her. After all, Nero thought, she had married their father, so underneath the mother Nero cherished and remembered, there surely was a woman that had dealt and was able to deal with violence, loss, pain, grief. Did she ever imagine that her children would try to kill each other? Would she blame him, like he knew Fio did? Would she scream at him? Would she just look at him, silently disappointed? Would she cry for Frate or for both of them? Would his mother love him in all the ways his father was never able to? There was no way to know and, still, Nero liked to think she would hold him in moments like those, when no one else was there, when the people he cared about seemed to blame him for all the bad things that had happened.

He knew he was responsible for what happened, but was it really his fault? Wasn’t Frate the one to blame for what happened? Nero never wanted to kill him. Nero just wanted that horrible feud between brothers to end. He wanted Frate to run away and live a peaceful life away from violence, hate, death. He only ever had good intentions. Why did Frate have to ruin everything? Why did he have to be so stubborn, so hateful, so angry that he became deaf to his words, to his pleadings, and blind to his care, to his attempts to end all the violence between them like Fio asked them to? Why did Frate have to put him in that position?

Nero felt like, even in his last act, Frate had once again stolen the love of his family away from him. The younger was the one that always had everything: love, affection, understanding, forgiveness, everyone always had all of that and more for him. He had always been Vincent’s favourite: their father loved him, forgave his every mistake, treated him like he was precious and delicate, spoiled him; and even though he was able to love one of his children that way, Vincent never showed that same kind of affection to his firstborn son. Nero felt like he was always asked and never got anything back; and yet he didn’t want much, besides feeling loved and appreciated like his siblings were.

Nero committed his life to that, to get his father to love him, and now it looked like he ended up getting everything but what he wanted while taking away from his own brother the only thing he ever seemed to truly desire. Frate never appreciated what he had: he always wanted more, everything everyone could give him, but most of all he desired his father to stop seeing him as a kid and start seeing him as an heir to the Vanetti family. Even in his anger towards him, Nero would have never imagined how deeply Frate craved recognition, attention. Even then, when everything was said and done, Nero didn’t know just how much his younger brother’s heart was plagued by his jealousy, his envy, his greed; he wasn’t happy with being loved, protected, spoiled: he wanted it all, positive and negative; he wanted to be the only one, to possess the hearts and the minds of everyone around him. But even without understanding all of that, Nero knew that whatever Frate had done, he did it for the exact same reasons he himself ever sacrificed anything: to get what he wanted, to reach his goal. And yet Nero couldn't help but be angry at how Frate tried to accomplish his own.

 _He was always like that_ , Nero told to himself. Frate was always egoistic, self-centred, desperate for attention. Nero remembered when, one day, some years after his mother had died, their father came back from a short trip to Chicago and brought toys for his younger children: Fio received a doll, Frate a Teddy bear. Nero was almost 14 years old at the time, and his father had told him he was too grown up for a toy, so he didn’t bring one for him; instead, he had decided it was time for him to have his first real gun. Nero was enthusiastic about the decision because he was excited at the idea that his father considered him an adult. So far, he had been allowed to use a real gun only under someone else’s supervision, and he was taught how to clean and load them, because — Vincent had explained once — that would have been a useful knowledge for him.

That day, Frate throw a tantrum, he started crying and whining because he wanted to spend time with his father too. “It’s not fair!” he complained, stamping his feet on the ground and pouting. But Vincent still sent him away, with the promise to spend some time with him later. Nero felt so satisfied and grateful that his father chose to spend time alone with him because it rarely ever happened. But when he thought back to that now, he couldn’t feel that way anymore; now that he knew what ‘being a grown-up’ meant, he wished he could have stayed a kid forever, and he hated his father for forcing him to face that reality so soon. But Frate never saw it like that, Frate never really understood anything about Nero and Vincent’s relationship nor about the weight his big brother had to carry on his shoulders; so, could Nero really blame him for being jealous, when he himself had thought that being considered a grown-up was a positive thing, until he experienced firsthand how horrible the mafia world really was?

Nero opened his eyes. His hands weren’t shaking anymore and his eyes weren’t wet. He had calmed down. He reached for the bottle of Lawless Heaven on the table in front of him and poured himself a drink; he downed the glass in one sip, enjoying the kickback of the liquor. Its taste always made him think about Avilio. The young man had helped him get through so many troublesome situations — Nero was grateful for that, but he selfishly wished for more. He wished for Avilio to be more than a trusted person, more than someone to help him through obstacles and difficulties, more than a trusted underling. In that moment in which he felt lonelier than he ever had before in his life, in that moment when almost everyone he ever cared for was either dead or angry at him, the only person he wished was there was Avilio. And yet, the room was empty except for him. It was not just a feeling, but rather a fact: Nero _was_ lonely. And he was scared of that loneliness.

“ _I am not afraid._ ” Frate had said earlier that night. “ _I’ll prove it for myself._ ”

Nero wanted to believe that, Nero wanted to think that at least Frate was determined enough to say something like that and mean it, but he knew that if he was scared now, there was no chance Frate wasn’t when he said that. He must have felt alone too. His eyes looked frightened while he pointed his gun at Nero, they looked terrified when Nero reacted faster than he expected and took his life away. In the sheer moments in which he realised he was dying, what did Frate think? Did he regret trying to kill his own brother, did he feel remorse? Was he scared of death? Did he doubt the existence of God and Heaven? Did he think about their mother? Did he think about what their father would say about him? Did he hate Nero, even in those last moments?

Nero felt a new surge of anger taking over him, but it was different from before. It wasn’t directed at anyone, and it was more like frustration, a feeling of helplessness coupled with the inability to let go. He bitterly wondered why things had to go that way. He blamed Ronaldo, and the influence the man had had on his brother. If only he didn’t stick his nose in the Vanetti’s business, maybe Frate wouldn’t have died. If only Frate listened to Nero instead of him, if only Vanno never died, if only Fio never married that Galassia man, if only his father wasn’t so obsessed with the idea that the Vanettis needed a bigger family to protect them, if only their mother never died… If only something, anything in his life had gone differently, then maybe Frate would have still been alive.

Though he was lost in his thoughts, Nero still didn’t miss the sound of the door opening, slowly, and then closing behind the person who entered the room. The light steps approaching him produced a barely noticeable sound on the carpet, and they stopped almost in the same moment Nero felt a hand placed softly on his shoulder.

“Nero…” Avilio murmured.

Nero couldn’t describe the way he felt as _‘happy’_. He wasn’t happy. The images of his brother’s empty eyes still haunted him, even right in that moment, and they would probably haunt him for a while. He felt miserable from guilt and regret. He felt angry, frustrated and sad. But he didn’t feel alone anymore. His heart warmed a bit at the thought that _someone did care_ after all, that he still had a connection, a thread to keep him tied to reality, away from the darkness inside him.

“From now on, I’ll be your brother.” Avilio’s tone was as neutral as ever, like that wasn’t a big deal, like those words weren’t a promise at all but a simple statement. Nero turned around to look at him: his usually expressionless face showed nothing but determination, and yet his look seemed so warm to him. But even though Nero wished for them to be closer, he wasn’t sure he wanted to call their relationship like that.

“My brother hated me. I killed him,” he said, and maybe it came out more like an accusation, or even like a threat, instead of sounding like a bitter observation of the truth. He didn’t even know what was the point, what he wanted to communicate by saying that, but Avilio’s face didn’t look perplexed.

“So what?” the younger man asked quietly. “You won’t kill me too, won’t you?” he added, a bold smirk on his face while he circled the couch to get in front of him. Nero looked at him and he wondered what Avilio meant with ‘brother’. Did he want to protect him? Did he want to support him? What feelings moved him? Why did he care so much?

_If you promise me this, what if you start hating me too?_

Nero looked away, staring at the floor, unable to organize his thoughts enough to carry on the conversation in a way that wouldn’t sound completely ridiculous. Maybe being alone with his thoughts was better, maybe he just had to deal with his grief on his own, maybe having someone there was just confusing him even more. But did he really want to put out the feeble flame that had warmed his heart?

As a response to Nero’s uncharacteristic silence, Avilio slowly kneeled in front of him, to look him in the face. He stared at him for a while, hands resting on his left thigh, right knee sinking in the soft carpet. “Nero…” he called again, and Nero raised his face and looked at him. Avilio’s expression was focused and resolute.

“What do you need me for?” he asked. Nero didn’t really understand. _Everything_ , he thought, _I need you for everything_. That didn’t make sense, but it was the truth. He needed him to find himself. He needed him not to give up. He needed him to accept what had happened. He needed him to move on.

“I’ll be that for you,” Avilio added before Nero had the time to even answer what he now assumed was a rhetorical question.

“I’ll be whatever you need me to be.”


End file.
